“Hope enchanted, smiled, and waved her golden hair,”
her ladyship’s auburn tresses caught on some ornament in the room. The whole fabric was raised a little from the fair head on which it seemed to grow—Caroline sprang forward instantly, and dexterously disentangling the accomplished actress, relieved her from this imminent and awkward peril.
“I am sure I’m exceedingly obliged to Miss Caroline Percy,” said her ladyship, adjusting her head-dress. “There, now, all’s right again—thank you, Miss Percy—don’t trouble yourself, pray.”
The heartless manner of these thanks, and her ladyship’s preparing to go on again with her exhibition, so displeased and disgusted Mr. Barclay, that he left her to the flattery of Sir James Harcourt, and, sighing deeply, quitted the room.
Lady Angelica, proud of showing her power of tormenting a man of his sense, smiled victorious; and, in a half whisper, said to Mrs. Hungerford, “Exit Mr. Barclay, jealous, because he thinks I did the shawl attitudes for Sir James, and not for him—Poor man! he’s very angry; but he’ll ride it off—or I’ll smile it off.”
Mrs. Hungerford shook her head. When her ladyship’s exhibition had finished, and when Sir James had continued repeating, either with his words or his looks, “Charming! Is not she charming?” till the time of dressing, an hour to which he was always punctual, he retired to his toilette, and Lady Angelica found herself alone with Mrs. Hungerford.
“Oh! how tired I am!” cried her ladyship, throwing herself on a sofa beside her. “My spirits do so wear me out! I am sure I’m too much for you, Mrs. Hungerford; I am afraid you think me a strange wild creature: but, dear madam, why do you look so grave?”
“My dear Lady Angelica Headingham,” said Mrs. Hungerford, in a serious but affectionate tone, laying her hand upon Lady Angelica’s as she spoke, “I was, you know, your mother’s most intimate friend—I wish to be yours. Considering this and my age, I think I may venture to speak to you with more freedom than any one else now living could with propriety—it grieves me to see such a woman as you are, being spoiled by adulation.”
“Thank you, my dear Mrs. Hungerford! and now do tell me all my faults,” said Lady Angelica: “only first let me just say, that if you are going to tell me that I am a coquette, and a fool, I know I am—both—and I can’t help it; and I know I am what some people call odd—but I would not for the world be a common character.”
“Then you must not be a coquette,” said Mrs. Hungerford, “for that is common character—the hackneyed character of every play, of every novel. And whatever is common is vulgar, you know: airs and affectation are common and paltry—throw them aside, my dear Lady Angelica; disdain flattery, prove that you value your own esteem above vulgar admiration, and then, with such beauty and talents as you possess, you may be what you admire, an uncommon character.”